


in a place without duty

by alongthewires



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe, Arthurian, Falling In Love, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Multi, but like an AU not actually set during the cold open, not described or graphic tho, strap in folks there's a lot of tropes in this one
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-31
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-17 11:26:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29099508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alongthewires/pseuds/alongthewires
Summary: Sir Aziraphale, a knight of the Round Table, strikes up an unlikely friendship with Crowley, a sorcerer aligned with Morgan Le Fey.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 6





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Having seen a bunch of Arthurian style fics set during the cold open, I decided I wanted to try my hand at a full AU. Like much of the mythos & the show, this is sort of loosey goosey with historical accuracy and is more about The Vibe than drawing from any particular canonical source for the Arthuriana. Same goes for plot tbh; this is an excuse to write scenes of tropes I like because what else is fanfic for if not self-indulgence, but there'll be some running threads through the chapters.
> 
> I have the first handful of chapters written and a rough outline of where I want it to go, so chapter updates are a tentative weekly. It's been a real long time since I've more than dipped my toe into actually posting fic (we won't talk about my dozen WIPs) let's see how it goes!! 
> 
> As a note, we're starting with they/them pronouns for but switching to he/him once Aziraphale knows how he identifies.

The scene Aziraphale stumbles upon does not surprise him, though it does turn his stomach. He keeps his lunch down, he's seen far worse than this, but his squire doesn't have quite the same constitution, apparent from the sounds of retching behind him. With a deep sigh, he unhooks his waterskin, holding it out for the lad who rinses his mouth, spitting off to the side before returning the water.

"Ride back to the tower, tell them what we've found. We'll need men and shovels to bury the dead." Half of the corpses strewn across the forest floor are the enemy, but that's no reason to leave them for the animals to devour. As the hooves of his squire's horse fade into the distance, an unpleasant stillness creeps over the clearing, raising the hairs at the back of Aziraphale's neck.

Determined not to be afraid, he dismounts, loosely tying the reins to a young tree so he can inspect the corpses more closely, perhaps discover what fate befell them before Gareth returns with men to bury the bodies. It was a fight, clearly. The knights from both sides have their weapons drawn and the soft ground is wet with spilled blood. The first man he comes across is one from his own side, and there isn't a mark upon him, though his face is twisted up in fear. _That_ troubles Aziraphale, and he lays his hand upon the hilt of his sword, reassured by the familiar weight.

What he sees next is even more troubling.

At first, he believes it to be a woman, hidden under the body of an enemy knight. The dress is black, shiny with blood, and long, red hair is spread out across the grass and dirt. Heart aching, Aziraphale rolls the armored body to the side, only to watch the figure beneath twitch and curl in on themselves, their chest barely rising. As gently as he can, Aziraphale lifts the figure from the dirt, revealing a surprisingly masculine face, one with a gash across the cheek and eyes clenched tightly shut, brow wracked with pain. They don't wake, lost in some troubled dream, even as he carries them deeper into the woods, away from the carnage.

Laid out on their back, he can now make out Morgan Le Fey’s heraldry stitched into the dress and something twists painfully in his chest. He knows, he _knows_ that this person is likely responsible for the death of some of Arthur's men, but he knows, too, what will be done to them if they're discovered. There is only so long he can hesitate, it won't take long for Gareth to make his journey. Aziraphale sends up a quiet prayer to the Almighty, hoping that he's doing the right thing, and takes his small dagger to cut away the enemy's dress, wrapping his cloak to offer some dignity and warmth, now he's left them in their chemise.

If he keeps their face hidden, he can easily pass them off as a woman, perhaps captured by the enemy, saved by their own men's bravery. The silver lining to this grim scene. His people know he is a capable healer, that he's trustworthy. They will be content to leave a woman in his care. He simply has to pray that no one discovers this ruse.

* * *

Crowley wakes to pain so blinding he has to fight every instinct to cry out, gritting his teeth as he breathes through the worst of it, knowing better than to expose a weakness. The pain doesn't subside, but he adjusts to it in increments, until he's able to open his eyes, taking in the world around him for the first time in… however long he's been unconscious.

The room is richly decorated, tapestries drape the walls to ease the bite of cold stone, and a fire burns in a hearth nearby, judging from the flickering light and warmth. The furs he's buried under help with that, too. He realises with a jolt of fear that he's naked beneath them, the knowledge driving him to attempt rising, a task that does little more than make him whimper in pain before he falls back.

"Oh, thank the heavens, you're awake." There is a voice in the room, one that belongs to a man approaching Crowley, who bares his teeth on instinct, the threat display of a cornered animal. The man pauses a few feet away from the bed, holding up his hands in placation, before he gasps in shock. "Your eyes — they —"

 _Shit_ , Crowley thinks, as he hastily tries to pull up a glamour, yet another act that only causes him pain. He's too exhausted and injured to tap into any magic, and that, more than the nudity, serves to instill true fear. He opens his mouth to speak, instead, but only an awful, rasping sound comes out.

The man's hands flutter, worry and fear writ across his face, but he retrieves a cup from somewhere in the room and brings it to the bedside. "It's only water, see?" Demonstrating, he drinks from the cup, his throat working as he swallows. Then, with a gentleness that makes Crowley want to scream, the man cradles the back of his head, fingers sliding through his hair as he lifts him slightly, bringing the cup to his lips so he can drink in small sips. It stings his pride, the necessity of this, but it's better than being unable to speak, and he drinks every last drop before the man lowers his head back to the pillow and retreats to a safe distance.

"Who —?" Crowley croaks out, hoping the man is clever enough to finish the sentence.

From the look on his face, he is, except there's something like hesitation there, too. "Sir Aziraphale, protector of the Eastern lands. I mean you no harm."

One of Arthur's men.

He's injured, naked, in the bed of _a knight of the Round Table_. Panic rises up in Crowley's throat, tightens in a band around his chest, but it paralyses him for all he wants to flee, his breathing shallow as he fights the sudden threat of unconsciousness. He is not going to pass out from being in a room with a knight of the bloody Round Table. He's better than that.

The knight, _Aziraphale_ , for his part, looks both troubled and exasperated, as if he'd been expecting this exact reaction and Crowley has disappointed him with his fear. "Please believe me. I have not spent the better part of a week tending to your wounds only to hurt you now."

"I — ng — wh — gh." The sounds he's making aren't words, but he can't wrap his head around any of this, not how long he's been out, not that this knight has taken care of his injuries, not that he seems to have found his way into one of their castles entirely accidentally. He tries to move again, struggling to get out of the bed. Pain tears through him, radiating from his back, and with no warning, darkness spreads over him, dragging him under.

* * *

It hadn't taken long for Aziraphale to discover that the person occupying his bed is a sorcerer, even before he'd noticed their eyes. He's seen the brands before, originally given to captured sorcerers, but Morgan Le Fey seems to have encouraged her people to take up the marks voluntarily, judging by the variety of positioning he's seen. The sorcerer in his bed is marked near one of his shoulder blades, and Aziraphale wonders if they'll be distressed to learn they'll have a new scar bisecting it, once the fresh wound heals. 

Not that they seem any stranger to scars. As he tends the wound, he can't help but map out the old scar tissue that crosses the expanse of their back. He knows, too, the marks of a whip when he sees them. The marks of torture. What he doesn't know is who's responsible, if perhaps this sorcerer was captured at some point and made an unlikely escape before they could be killed. Surely he'd have heard; that sort of news would have traveled, but the notion that — that their own people did this to them is a horrifying one. He chooses not to dwell, hurrying to finish his work before his patient stirs. 

He isn't quite quick enough, there's a quiet groan from the sorcerer and Aziraphale automatically plants a hand at the back of their neck, holding them gently. "Don't move yet, I need to finish redressing your wound."

The body beside him tenses, fear obvious despite the fact he can't see their face. “Let me _go_ ,” the sorcerer hisses, and the edge of panic in their voice drives Aziraphale to obey. They relax slowly, finally calming enough to turn their head in order to shoot a glare his way.

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale says, finding that he means it. His intention hadn’t been to scare them, only to stop further injury. The injured often lose self-preservation instincts in favor of pain and fear, in his experience. “I’ll only be a moment longer.”

“ _Fine_.” With that single snapped word, they both fall silent aside from the sorcerer's occasional pained hiss as Aziraphale finishes dressing the wound with clean strips of cloth. Once he’s assured they’re secure, he steps away to a safe distance.

“It would be best if you lay on your stomach for a while, to keep pressure off the wound.” He busies himself tidying up, noting that the sorcerer grunts in acknowledgement and remains still, watching him with strange, golden eyes. Aziraphale swallows, unsure of himself, even as he ventures a further question, “Do you have a name?”

Those eyes blink at him, almost seeming surprised. It occurs to him that the sorcerer likely has expected cruelty from him, that they must be confused as to why he’s kept them alive. He could reassure them, if he had any idea how, if he had an explanation for why he did this. Perhaps it’s best that he doesn’t. As soon as they’re healed up enough to travel, he’ll have to send them on their way, and hopefully, they’ll never cross paths again.

“Crowley," comes the answer, the sorcerer's voice gone soft with exhaustion, “My name’s Crowley.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A chance meeting in the woods, this time it's Crowley's turn to help out Aziraphale.

A wolf howls, too close for Aziraphale’s comfort, especially when a second joins in the chorus from his other side. He isn’t a stranger to fear, but the fear that comes from battle is different to being alone and hunted by creatures that cannot be reasoned with. Were he still mounted, he might feel better, but his mare had thrown him at the first howl and fled, hopefully back to the safety of the castle.

Aziraphale can’t help being somewhat bitter about the situation, about being out here in the middle of the night when he ought to be warm in bed, even if the emotion isn’t a particularly useful one, while being corralled by wolves.

The only mercy is that the moon is full, lighting his way through the forest and helping him orient in an attempt to find his way  _ out _ , before he becomes someone’s dinner. If it comes to it, he has his sword, is more than capable of defending himself, he’d simply prefer not to kill unnecessarily, nor risk himself in the process. Without thinking much of it, he sends a silent plea to God, should He be listening, to guide him to safety.

He isn’t truly expecting anything from it, the instinct simply ingrained. 

But there’s no mistaking the sudden crackle of a fire. Aziraphale startles but recovers quickly, turning towards the sound and faint glow as the howls grow nearer. It’s a risk to run towards  _ people _ in this forest when many different sorts travel within it, not all of them with kind intentions, but surely it can’t be a coincidence for him to have heard the fire seconds after praying. He has faith.

There is a clearing ahead; he steps into it cautiously but with determination, noting a single cloaked figure sitting by the fire, their back to him. “Greetings, friend. I come in peace.”

The figure moves quickly, standing and turning in one swift moment, drawing a dagger from their belt. And then they pause, golden eyes wide.

“Aziraphale?” He asks, almost the same moment as Aziraphale says, “Crowley?”

They’re interrupted by a growl, one of the wolves that had been chasing him stalking out of the shadows on the opposite edge of the clearing, eyes flashing in the firelight. Aziraphale stiffens, hand falling to his sword, but Crowley makes a gesture to be still, his gaze falling onto the wolf, their eyes meeting. The staring match is brief, before the wolf lowers its head and trots back out into the darkness, leaving the two humans behind.

"How —?" Aziraphale starts, but isn’t sure how to finish the question, abandoning it to the night air.

"Don't they tell stories about how all sorcerers are part beast? Or is it that we lay with them? I can never keep up with the rumour mill." His words are bitter, but there's an edge to them that's almost hurt, a fragility that Aziraphale did not expect. The instinct to  _ soothe it _ that rises up in him is even less expected, and he quickly squashes it down.

“I wouldn’t know anything about that,” he lies, well aware of all the stories that people tell about sorcerers, how they cavort with the devil, lay with beasts, lure children away into the forest. He’s never much believed it, though, and has an even harder time picturing Crowley doing any of those things. He had been defensive and surly during the few days he’d spent recovering in Aziraphale’s care, but he hadn’t been cruel, or evil. “Should I say thank you?”

Crowley laughs, then, dropping back down onto the ground in front of the fire, his limbs askew in a lazy sprawl. “Best not, my lot wouldn’t be happy if they hear I’ve rescued one of Arthur’s knights.”

“I suppose you’re right.” Aziraphale’s agreement is mild, a sort of neutral politeness that he slips into when he’s in an uncertain situation. 

Tentatively, he circles part way around the fire, crouching down to Crowley’s left, stretching his gloved hands out towards the flames. He can tell that he’s being scrutinized, is expecting to be told that he isn’t welcome to stay. If Crowley is worried about rescuing him, allowing him to continue to seek shelter by the fire is surely worse.

He blinks when a waterskin is held out towards him. “Wine? It isn’t poisoned or anything, honest.”

It isn’t especially reassuring, but if Crowley wanted him dead, he doubts he’d use poison to do it. Aziraphale accepts the offering, grateful for the warmth of the alcohol and fire.

* * *

Wine is a wonderful thing, in Crowley’s humble opinion. It leaves him loose-limbed and relaxed in a way that few things do, and that quality is particularly important when a knight of Camelot is sitting with him by the fire, sharing said wine. There are a dozen or so excuses flitting through his mind for why he allowed this, why he saved the man in the first place, but deep down he knows it boils down to something painfully simple.

Aziraphale had been kind to him, and Crowley is an awful, greedy thing who can’t remember the last time someone touched him so gently. It had been nothing, of course, a healer’s hands, but reminding himself of that didn’t serve much use. He can tell himself a thousand times that the knight meant nothing by allowing him time to recover in his care, but after a life of only being touched cruelly or callously, the memories of kindness are hard to shake, no matter how he tries.

It certainly hasn’t stopped him from ending up here, drunk on wine and watching Aziraphale bemoan the habits of his fellow knights. Bedivere snores, Lancelot flirts with anything that moves, Kay has a terrible ego.

“You’re not  _ listening _ , Crowley,” comes Aziraphale’s complaint; it turns out he’s a bit whiny when drunk, a fact that Crowley finds delightful. The last time they’d met, he’d been on edge, in pain, terrified. Hadn’t had much chance to pay close attention to the knight. Not like he does now, and riling him up with a mocking pout. For a moment, he thinks Aziraphale is going to fuss at him, but what he comes out with instead earns another laugh. “Do you have anything to eat?”

“Demanding, aren’t you?” But he’s already reaching for his pack, rifling through it to pull out some of his supplies. He passes the bread and cheese over, realising he’s not nearly drunk enough to deal with how it makes him feel when Aziraphale’s face lights up as if he’s done something wonderful, not merely handed him a meager meal. 

* * *

The sorcerer is a fascinating creature. Aziraphale blames the wine for the thought, knowing that’s only partially true, that he’d thought as much the first time they’d met. Reminds him of a beaten animal, a little bit, how cagey he’d been, the scars he carried, but here by the fire, with the open sky above them, he seems far more relaxed.

That might  _ also  _ be the wine, though.

He’s  _ clever _ , too, which Aziraphale has to admit he didn’t anticipate, and he feels a hint of shame that he may have bought too much into what the other knights say about Le Fey’s sorcerers. But Crowley is smart, quick with a sharp comment or thoughtful rebuttal as their conversation spins from complaints about court to vast philosophical queries that they’re both exactly the right amount of drunk to talk about.

The sorcerer, unsurprisingly, does not believe in God, but does have some fascinating comments about the nature of humanity that Aziraphale finds himself agreeing with. This is unexpected, too, that Crowley apparently thinks so highly of people, even while admitting in the same breath that many of them are ‘right bastards’. 

“S’all, you know,  _ obviously _ we’re meant to work together, look after each other, or what’s the point of it all? Might as well be — be cockroaches, for all it’d matter. It’s just rubbish that a handful of blokes at the top have got all the power. Your Arthur comes to mind.”

Aziraphale is drunk and relaxed enough not to take offense at that, merely wrinkling his nose. “Arthur is good to his people.”

“From your side of things, sure.” There’s something weighted in the answer, a heaviness that Aziraphale doesn’t have the faculties to analyse, right in the moment. It passes, anyway, as Crowley tosses a piece of bread at him. “D’you reckon cockroaches look after each other when they get hurt?”

The conversation devolves from there, but the comment sticks with Aziraphale, even when he awakens the next morning as the sun rises. Crowley is sleeping on the other side of a pile of embers, his face soft. In the interest of hospitality, Aziraphale takes their waterskins to the nearby river, leaving his host for the evening with fresh water and some edible shoots he found by the riverbed, wrapped in a clean piece of cloth. It isn’t much, but it’s better than leaving behind nothing, after being welcomed to the fire.

He doesn’t think too hard about returning to Caerleon in far finer spirits than he left.


End file.
